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Tom Spencer Apr 2
dangling from the

crescent moon
and morning star

luminous jewels

above a blinking
stream of brake lights

into the dawn

Tom Spencer © 2019
zebra Aug 2018
the witches
they don't take no ****

feminists with a wand
made from a femur
wrapped in ***** hair,
fingernails, and spit

not good little passive girls
although amused by a good spanking
for laughs that titillate
from a red wicked dicked old man
with slippery fireballs
like a spicy cherry pepper
that slurps filths coves
through a black tongue
and open-mawed bite

******'s queens
oiled torsos and bond fires
drenched ornaments for laughing snakes
that spread like spider webs
while the whips flash licks
hells tender blood kiss

insatiable prayers
******* rituals
mixed like bones in broth
with intricate sigils and saliva red
menstruum her holy sacrament
that shapeshift crones into young girls prancing
and bind water to stones

her spell can crack your skull
like a mules kick
and melt your eyes
like nuclear skies

the witches
they don't take no ****
soft spoken intro

The tree,
With its lights,
***** and tinsel,
Garland, excitement,
Of these nights,
The mistletoe and a star…
See the candy canes,
And a door wreath,
On a cold,
Snowy Christmas Eve!  

Toys of Elvin-creation gleam, faces of the children they smile and beam, pitter-patter sounds of feet stomp -ing; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

A night of magic you won’t believe; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

Santa Claus and Christmas-time, sing a-long with our cheery rhyme, nothing ever feels so fine; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

A night of magic you won’t believe; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

Spicy scent of pumpkin pies, hear the reindeer when his sleigh arrives, toting presents that jolly guy; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

A night of magic you won’t believe; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

Santa, St. Nick, Sinterklaas, around the whole world in one night -no pause, and a childhood feeling that’ll never be lost; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

A night of magic you won’t believe; it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!
Tally-**! Jolly-fun! The night ain’t over till Santa’s done; a night of magic you won’t believe, it’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

It’s a cold snowy Christmas Eve!

A cold snowy Christmas Eve!
Nico Julleza Dec 2017
Every year to me, now and then
Families and hollies filled with merriment
Only steps away of the outside snow
Sprawling emotions underneath the mistletoe

Glisten, the pavement covered in hue
Journey of a thousand crystals falling anew
The icicle dew at the gutter lines in row
Constellation tales upon the sky-light glow

Enchant pines adored by ornaments
Treasured memories flew like a firmament
Wreaths to every door, signs of triumph & joy
Bringing glad tidings from God's little boy

Trains in and out of the winter-night
Gifts and glory offered with endless blithe
Hymns from a choir trailing every post
Greetings to an old friend even to the unknown
#Christmas #Holidays #ChristOurLord #Joy # Glory

Merry Christmas Poets and Have A Glorious new Year. Hope I'm not late..
The inspiration just came to me, and this is to be my very first Holiday poem. Inspired with many traditions and observation all around during holidays.

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Sun, moon and golden candles hung in midair
are but ornaments used by heavens muse
to paint true love and all things rare.
My love does stir my vice to compare
painted words to love and  
these candles hung in midair.
zebra Sep 2018
we are waiting for you
hungry with lust
wanting you shimmering in blood and ***
like red and creamy white ribbon ornaments
so that every suffering makes you whimper and simper

be brave little girl
it will hurt like Dracula's kiss
pains pleasure
pleasures pain
spice to burn
addiction to beg
every sting and gleaming bite
an ******
perfectly sexacuted
until your body gives out
like a fluttering thrush

and than we will take you at last
like a million black toothed moons
*** adult
mariano aponte Sep 2018
Travel seems to be the common detonator, yet it appears like quantity took over quality.

Am I dynamic enough - you might ask. Must I broadcast my every high, or hide my flaws even?

I don’t rely on my pictures exclusively because they lack ornaments displays. May I interest you with my thoughts instead?

Will you give me a chance to put my best foot forward without distractions?

Let’s be real... I’m making a genuine effort to connect with someone... I’m not here to convince the dating world I have life.
Fragments from my online dating experiences
The roses are wearing​ ornaments of thorns
As the moon wearing darkness in diadem!

Resurrection​ without death is born to impossibility!

Enemies rejoice not in your infamy,
without death and its sting the glory of resurrection is ruled out of existence and favor.
Willow shade Jun 2018
Only fire can be born from a spark, nothing else.

It is impossible to keep fire not burning.

You cannot warm yourself near volcano and feel serene.

You cannot touch the sun, you can just only watch it.

Even if you love the sun, you must love it humanly, not like a moth. That is the main difference of a deeper, conscious and pure love.

No human loves suffering or wants to live in it. If one does and wants, he is something new, but anyway, not a human.

And if the one is not a human, he cannot be purer than he was before.

Pure thing is humanity. Humanity is always serene and as calm as shallow, mild water to swim in.

Being humane is the highest state of being.

Anything surpasses it with suffers, pain and fire, either can turn you to inhuman being or to ashes.

There is no humanity beyond suffering. Even if it is the suffering of the deepest love. You have to come back.

In any case and circumstances, pure love must not hurt, pure love cannot degrade, pure love has no ability to set a fire.

But the thing inside me began with an instant spark and I have been in a fire burning everything and everyone around.

I wish I could cry and extinguished this fire. Yet I cannot cry. Because its spring is not from a pure love. It does not know tears. It is from a spark, from an insincere, egoist and rampant origin.

My poetry and feelings to you are a flame. It deceives by making you feel hot when you are cold and showing itself as a great present or creating various magnificent ornaments. I remember how heroically you tried to carry it, I also tried, but it is impossible. It wants only one thing - just to burn anything it has, it finds and it encounters. Even myself.

At least, for humanity and for you I must stop it. Not being too late. I wanted to provide a divine shade, but that rampant feeling inside was always deceiving and preparing a more frightful plot everytime. It was too many times stronger than me, it was courageous and tireless, however, it was not humane.

Sorry for burning your hands, my dear
Sorry for all hurts I gave

Be attentive about the genesis of your inner impromptu and inspiration, my dear poet brethren...
The thorns are the ornaments
of roses in the sunshine as
darkness baptised the moon to
its inestimable jewelry of glory.

Enemies rejoice not at your
wickedness, without you the sun
of glory will not shine in bloom.

Without death the glory of
ressurection is not  born!
Ejike Pius Feb 21
The brightest light blossoms
in the darkest of places
Like colourful lilies full
of fragrance springing from
the most stagnant waters

The nights
When the moonlight shimmers
with her golden colour
The stars decorate the sky
Just as a princess is decked with
ornaments and priceless jewelries.
The darkest of the nights gives the biggest picture.

The biggest hive,
With the biggest and fiercest of bees,
lies the sweetest honey.
Like an **** flowers in the garden
Which perhaps will constitute
a beauty when on mountain.

The butterfly,
Which nature has used to
decorate the earth to shame Art
Has nothing to show
When it is a caterpillar.
But I can't look at her on lilies
without smiling like a tickled, dimpled baby.

Ain't nature generous enough
That she shows all that
there is nothing in anything?
The pen of a happy poet dances on paper
To tell his folk that there is always a silver lining after the tunnel.
Lvice Nov 2017
The house that I grew up in is growing old.
I can barely distinguish between the house and my grandfather, and both have given up. Tired..of people walking inside of them.
I used to fall in the house running around the hallway and through the kitchen and now I'm falling through the floor.
There is no one to say "Get out of my kitchen!"
I've never been in the attic and I've only seen my grandfather open the latch once; I'll never get to see what was stored.  I thought Katherine's ornaments could be up there, but neither knew what had been done with them.
It broke my heart to see what I had seen. I wanted to have those memories again but not all the money in the world could buy them back.
The magic I had grown up with is dying. There is no more children to fall on the cinder under the fur shed and burn her forehead, or see snow for the first time. And after making snow *****, running hands through water and letting Katherine rub them through her bony hands. It doesn't snow in Louisiana but for this house it did.
I loved being old at such a young age. Picking blackberries with him and learning to preserve them. Staining my mouth, cheeks, hair, hands, my shirt with Mulberry. Then rolling dough on the counter and staining it with little girl hands and thin fingers and bear paws.
And still the only jelly I'll eat is blackberry jelly.
Cards at the table with Katherine was the best. She had this laugh. More of a cough and she wouldnt stop coughing until she caught her breath and then I would laugh so hard and try to walk it off and trip over her oxygen tubes.  That machine  used to haunt me. It looks with green eyes at night and stood in the open doorway of the door that I never understood why it was there, it never closed anyway. The doorway I used to hide in that one nightmare  about the dinosaur that would chase me around the same hallways that my grandfather would. I've always loved dinosaurs after that.
And eating at the kitchen table where there was always honey because grandfather was also a beekeeper and loved honeycombs and fresh honey.  The one flaw in that table was the window where I always thought raptors or a bobcat would jump out of while I was eating and eat ME. Tough little five year old me would put up a fight and scream until Paw would save me.
  The dining room table where Granny Velgin always had pancakes. The BEST pancakes. Where I learned to make them years later along with paine perdu, or French toast.  Little Cajun french me with my French name and father who was Czech but I have a  Cajun French grandfather.

The magic that was the now 60 year old house is going. It was always "50 years old" every time I asked my grandfather how old it was. It was his childhood house too. He says he still remembers Granny chasing Ayo with a pan for staying out too late..and I still chase the Christmas lights we used to walk to see. I still chase my cousins around the backyard geese and chicken and duck pen. I'm still chasing the magic that sat in the attic of the house I never looked in.
misha Mar 15
how can my own home feel like jail?

the windows are always open but i
can see the bars that trap me inside
my own mind, hold my lungs tight
to stop me breathing,
there's always fresh air entering
but when it comes near me it becomes
rancid and putrid, choking me
and tearing me up but i will always
end up inhaling the matter or else
i won't survive

the rooms are filled with ornaments
from different countries,
little souvenirs that we were there
but even with the furniture
i feel secluded, my bed is not
only my resting place, but it
sobs as i rest my tired eyes,
hoping that even in this darkness
of my room, where i can hear the
shallow breaths fill the air,
perhaps the light that escapes
between these walls could
guide me and send me a halo

the clothes that hang solitary
waiting to be reached towards,
they only cover me from this
world that i live in,
these clothes do not liberate me
but they protect me from
anything worse than this jail
in which i know i shall rot
ever so slowly but until then
i shall pray that it won't be
due to my sadness or the fact
that i can't stop worrying and
stressing about the future

if only these walls, this jail,
stopped my mind from wandering
into a state of freedom,
aching to be heard,
screaming at whatever chance they have
but this voice will never escape
as i am made of steel,
my bones are my cage and
this body is half-alive

hold-me, could i dare to ask?
hold-me, in this jail as i
fall into deep sleep,
pray that i won't wake up
hold-me as i soften my breath,
i'd finally feel the rain
as it patters onto my face
but i'd look up and see no sky,
no clouds and no heaven
imagining another life isn't that bad
harper Dec 2018
part one:

everybody needs somebody to love;
to adorn with plastic ornaments;
to say they feel lost;
and mean it;
a real love:
feelings of assuredness.
believe me,
i am sure.

part two:

gasoline heaven lines nostrils-
and the brain-
and the hands and heart it controls.
the pockets, too.
is it sad to realize and not care?
that the pockets and the nostrils-
and the steel strings (and their haunting reverberation)-
and pencils to paper-
come before true, and honest love?

part three:

no bodies left behind,
or given away for the future.
no turpentine-
no poppies-
or silk.
no illegalities;
rule breaking;
a simple desire to be an artist
and the sacrifices an artist makes
only to fail and continue to yearn:
Johnny walker Apr 22
I took more flowers to my darling today sun shining
birds singing beautiful
so peaceful just a light  
I placed her flowers and she has her teddy In a sealed jar I put there for
her there are some
Also, some more of her favourite ornaments I was sat there talking to her that I always do and I said to Helen
on a day wonderful like today beautiful sunny blue sky, I wouldn't mind moving In with
to be free of all these every struggle of life far too many pressures
days for average Joe like me very little
money retired can't afford to do anything
wife anymore at times life can seem a bit pointless but I shall carry
Life can be very difficult at times but no matter how hard
I'll make it through  somehow
“The Test of a Man...”

                              -Ecclesiasticus 27:5-8

Friends are the chief ornaments of a man’s life
Through fishing trips and schoolyard baseball games
The brotherhood of barracks and camp and field
And ideas served and volleyed in courtesy

Among those men who have seen something more
Of the world than movie screens and gossip ‘zines
Men as familiar with rifle and rosary
As with a crescent wrench and single-malt

Men who can work both plow and metered line
Then lift a glass in thanks when the first stars shine
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Sean M O'Kane Nov 2018
It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.  
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.
I am escaping by boat
and eradicating the ropes
that kept me bound to your suffering
in limbo she waits for her heart to be recognized
tired of this drawn out sequence
all she wants to do is rest
pushed beyond the edge of exhaustion
she knows she can’t go on like this indefinitely
will she swallow her pride and admit her tiredness
or will she yield to the pressure of her mind
and push blindly on against her body’s better judgement
what a presumptuous question
the stolen answers are ubiquitous
sleep confounds you
surrounds you like a blanket
i am awake
waiting for my release into the ethers
ethereal tears stream down your face
i say grace and drift upon clouds of memory
and fragments of emotion
what a mystery how we escape the most fragile feelings
only to return to childhood memories
that linger on our tongues like the taste of cotton candy
sand and sweat fill the space of your nightmares
share them with your neighbor
and become the avant-garde artist you always dreamed about becoming
what’s more important to you anyway
faith or family

sandpaper or cigarettes
do you persist in coming clean
or would you prefer to lounge on lawn chairs and living room furniture
the carpets were just steamed
and so were these greens
with spines and volumes of identifying marks
strike the match and let the spark illuminate the darkness of our misconceptions
no exceptions to love
only lovers crying out for hungry minds
the fire encircles us
turns us purple
love is merging through the haze
stage 1 begin to undress
stage 2 do it all again

serpents painting along the corridors of our houses
sound and flowers persecute the daughters
who waited too long for you to grow up
alone in empty basements
a passionate silhouette among the flowers and field mice
streams of tears cascading like waterfalls down their rocky faces
spraying wind and wave
staying cool yet safe
all our hearts are standing still
on the edge of a needle
billions of beings dance in turmoil
strolling through volcanoes on a windy afternoon
monsoon weather equals heaven’s idea of a joke

shake me till i bleed
bleed me till i come to a boil
i’ll follow the diagonal road
under crossroad’s formidable abode
swift like the lion on the savannah
i’ll trade you a banana for a band of gypsies
simply delirious she spent her allowance on tea and ornaments
the scent of cattle
a magic rattle made from bone and pebbles
the shells were held at right angles
and lined their faces like the frame around a picture
the pages in the book were yellowed by time’s ***** fingerprints
a hint of irony
a humorous blunder
some people stare while others are perplexed by their own wonder

i speak volumes in my thirties
a missile of connection and yes i am planning to get *****
and women come for miles to hear these words of beauty
they taste the herbs inside them and dance within their nighties
a flute in the woods called you back home
and sent you on a journey through thorn and bramble
we stumbled into each others arms and made haste for the carriage that would take us safely beyond
kB 2 Dec 2018
Hair catches light and shines
a violet prism on pages
Sage bushes push their scent from
the edge of the garden
Watch hummingbirds
sip through small straws
Dogs sing songs
of annoyance while wind chimes
fight to be louder
And only a few orange ornaments
remain on once flowered foliage
Life and death grace the same soil
and have everything
and nothing to do with one another
Shift from relaxation with nature
to thoughts of the nature of life
Been set aside in that regard and
in the survival of the fittest I’d lose
Pen warmed to overflow
Start writing a
survivor’s guide to a poet’s mind

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